The sound of Derek’s pen scratching against paper filled the silent courtroom like nails on a chalkboard. I watched from across the mahogany table as my husband of eight years signed our divorce papers with the same casual indifference he’d shown when signing grocery lists. His lips curved into that smug smile I’d grown to despise, the one that said he believed he’d won everything and left me with nothing.
“Well, that was easier than I thought,” Derek muttered to his high-priced attorney, loud enough for me and my court-appointed lawyer to hear.
His voice carried that familiar tone of superiority that had slowly chipped away at my self-worth over the years. “I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.”
The word stung more than if he’d just said he felt nothing at all. Judge Harrison, a stern woman in her sixties with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, looked over her glasses at Derek with obvious disapproval.
“Mr.
Thompson, please show respect for these proceedings and your wife.”
“Soon-to-be ex-wife,” Derek corrected with a chuckle, straightening his expensive navy suit, the same suit I’d helped him pick out for his promotion last year, back when I still believed we were building a life together. “And with all due respect, your honor, I think we can all agree this is long overdue. Amara will be much better off without me holding her back.”
The cruel irony in his voice made my stomach turn.
He was the one who had insisted I quit my marketing job to support his career.
He was the one who had convinced me we didn’t need separate bank accounts because married couples should share everything. He was the one who had systematically removed my independence while building his own empire.
And now he sat there pretending he was doing me a favor. I kept my hands folded in my lap, digging my nails into my palms to keep from trembling.
My simple black dress felt shabby compared to Derek’s polished appearance, and I knew that was exactly the image he wanted to project: successful businessman divorcing his struggling wife who couldn’t keep up with his ambitions.
Derek’s attorney, a sharp-faced man named Preston, who charged more per hour than most people made in a week, leaned over to whisper something in Derek’s ear. They both glanced at me and smiled. I didn’t need to hear their words to know they were celebrating their victory.
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